Dreams and Nightmares
by Snofums
Summary: Watching the Games is nothing but pain for Gale. Rated T for now, but expect it to go up for later chapters.
1. Dreams and Nightmares

We sit, together, waiting for the dawn. It has long become our practice to meet in darkness, find our spots, and wait for the game to stir. These winter months have always been hardest, since dawn comes earlier and colder.

But it's what I look forward to most, now.

I'm not always there before she is, but I know my anticipation is greater than hers, which makes my trip into the woods seem shorter. Sometimes I find her, already at our spot, hunched over to keep herself warm. Other mornings I'm the first to arrive, and I sit, listening to my own heart thrum in wait. I feel it quicken when I see her – I never hear her – and I'm almost surprised that she, with her hunter's ear, can't hear the joyful beats just below my skin.

In the spring and summer, when the air is less raw, we wait side by side, arrows and bow loose but in our hands, ready to be picked up at a moment's notice. Sometimes either she or I will hear something in the darkness, but rarely do we risk a kill before we can see. It's an easy way to lose arrows, and to get into trouble. We are not the only ones in the forest, and though we may be predators to some, we can easily be preyed upon by others.

In the deepest nights of winter, though, when the wind bites and we know it might be hours before something edible might cross our path, she sometimes lets me hold her.

I'm not sure when we started doing it. I do remember it was after I had realized my feelings for her, and holding her meant more than just warmth. For me.

This morning we wait in our usual spot – low down, concealed by a large, curved bush, my back resting against a tree. An ideal spot to see and not be seen.

Most mornings, when I wrap her in my arms, I keep my legs to the side as I press her back into my chest, sliding her into my chest and wrapping my arms around her.

But today is different.

I felt it when she first arrived. I was at our stone, crouched low and breathing into my hands to warm them, when I turned and saw her. My heart had given its usual leap at her silent appearance, but my voice, brusque and cracked from the cold, mercifully, had betrayed nothing of my feelings.

"Hey, Catnip."

She hadn't said hello back. Nor had she approached me like she usually does, giving me a friendly, if somewhat sleepy, nod. Some days she smiles. But she had done neither of those things, choosing instead to stay at her spot, one hand resting at the strap of her game bag. She had just looked at me.

Was something wrong? I had stopped warming my hands to turn to her, fully, cocking my head to the side to ask her, wordlessly, what was going on.

Still, she had just looked at me. It had been different, that expression. There was no doubt that she had been studying me, but it was as if she had never seen me before. As if she were searching my features for something she wasn't sure was there. Finally, I had been unable to hold my tongue any longer.

"What is it?"

She had shaken her head, her grey eyes locked on my own. I had smiled, thinking that while we did have similar features, there was no doubt we were very different. Her eyes, while grey, are undoubtedly larger than mine, while her nose is smaller. It also turns up, a bit, at the end. And her lips …

My breath catches, a little, every time I think of them, and how I long to brush them with my own. There had been times in the past when I had caught myself staring at them, wondering what it would feel like to cup her cheek in my hand and run my thumb along her bottom lip.

Normally, I try and make myself stop when my thoughts go down that path. I don't think there is a single part of Katniss Everdeen that I don't want to touch. And over the past few weeks, in some incredible stroke of luck, I had been able to hold her during those darkest hours of the morning.

When she had just shaken her head at me, a fear shot through me that she was going to tell me we had to stop. That she thought it was getting too personal, too … affectionate. If I knew anything about Katniss at all, it was that she had spent years building up a strong resistance to that sort of attention. I could probably confess my undying love for her every hour on the hour and she wouldn't believe me. Or, more accurately, she would tell herself she doesn't believe me. I think, by this point, her ability to turn a blind eye to how people feel about her has become second nature. She is focused on keeping her family alive. Anything else, she would say, is pointless.

And I can see where she is coming from. Katniss and I understand each other plainly about that. We never have to explain or justify. We both just know, and understand. Yet I want more. I want marriage and children. And every day, I tell myself I won't be able to change her mind.

But every day, my heart can't help but hope.

I know it's foolishness to wrap my arms around hers every morning; to breathe in the scent of her and lose myself in the feel of her head resting against my chest and her body against mine. I should stop, and pull away. Bring an extra coat or something.

But I can't. I have to hold her. I have to.

And so it is relief – pure, stupid, unswerving relief – that surges through me when, after shaking her head by way of an answer this morning, she had dropped her bag, picked up her weapons, trudged over to our usual spot, and waited for me to sit first.

But this morning, as I sit and open my arms to her, she doesn't sit beside me. She drops down, moves my knees back in front of me, and parts them.

My throat goes dry.

It is lucky, perhaps, that I am frozen with shock. Otherwise I'm not sure I'd be able to resist putting my hands on hers and pulling them higher up my thighs, reaching forward, and capturing her mouth with a kiss.

Without a word, she turns her back on me and wiggles her way in between my knees, tucking her legs so mine can fold around hers. As I wrap my limbs around her, I inhale her familiar smell and, for a moment, abandon myself to the sheer _feel_ of her: how her tiny arms feel in my big hands; how I can see her pulse beating in her neck through the slightest bit of skin exposed to me.

This morning there's something new, too: how her legs feel pressed in between mine.

I close my eyes and swallow, willing myself to stay in control, reminding myself of what I might lose if I allow my body to do what it so desperately wants to do.

"I'm still cold," I suddenly hear her whisper. My reverie is broken, and I realize she has turned to face me ...

... and she is looking at me, expectantly. I don't move, though. I don't trust myself.

So she moves for me, slowly reaching up to unzip my coat, and then moving to unzip her own.

It's odd – the wind seems to have no effect on my newly exposed skin. I see her withdraw her arms from her sleeves and then, making sure her coat is still over her shoulders, she moves into me and wraps her arms around my waist.

She nuzzles her face against my chest.

I immediately zip her into me and then, emboldened by the way she tightens her grip around me, slip my arms from my own sleeves to wrap them around her, underneath our jackets. I have never felt so much of her body pressed up against mine. I feel her shivers subside as I let my cheek drop to rest against the stop of her head.

It is, perhaps, my happiest moment.

Until.

I am not sure how much time has passed, but judging from the sky and feel of the air, it can't have been more than a few minutes. Our breathing has become rhythmic and synchronized, and for the hundredth time this morning, I find myself longing to share a bed with Katniss – to feel her breath rise and fall, to see her as she sleeps, to simply have her next to me in the moments of peace and solitude that night brings.

I feel her stir, and when I turn to look at her, I see that she has lifted her head to meet my gaze. Now when she looks at me, her eyes aren't questioning. They're affectionate. But there's something more to them, now; something more than just friendly affection.

Her gaze lowers to my lips, back to my eyes, and then drops, again, to my lips.

"Gale," she whispers.

My heart stops.

Slowly, with aching deliberation, she closes her eyes and presses her lips to mine. They are cold, but soft. My eyes won't stay open and my stomach constricts in an explosion of feeling that rockets through me, leaving me feeling almost dizzy.

I hungrily press back, my arms tightening around her, pulling her even closer to me. I devour her, crushing her lips with mine.

When her tongue hesitantly brushes against me, I nearly pass out, but I gather myself enough to respond. My eagerness, my hunger for her, grows with every passing second. Her moans are soft, but they echo through my head until I can feel them in my chest. I don't stop kissing her until I can't stand to go any longer without air. And then …

…. I open my eyes to darkness. Except no, the faintest hint of grey is seeping through the window.

I am alone, in bed.

My first, stupid thought is that I am late. That she will be wondering where I am. That she is waiting, in the cold, without me.

And then I remember.

She is hundreds of miles away, in a damp cave. And she is not alone.

No, she is in someone else's arms. Someone who kisses her. Someone who loves her. And someone whom she is started to love back.

Without warning, I roll over and vomit over the side of the bed into the bucket I have learned to keep near me. I have needed it more than once, watching her. With him.

I pull myself to sitting and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I am almost looking forward to being in the mines today, with the hard, distracting, dangerous work. It is the only escape I have from the anguish and misery that the rest of my life has become.

I cannot not watch her. I have tried, tried to stay away from all but the mandatory viewings. Even those, I attempted, at first, to avoid, by shutting myself away upstairs. Once the Games started, that no longer became an option. My mind would torture me with images of what could be happening to her. No, I had to watch because I had to know.

The first time she kissed him was the first time I was sick. My mother sent for Mrs. Everdeen, to make sure it wasn't the flu. But I think she knew. I think they both knew.

Now, the images my mind conjures for me are more torturous than before. When I am not watching all I feel is the same sense of nausea, as well as a kind of pain I have never experienced before. It is some combination of jealousy, heartbreak, and sickening worry. I used to long for the escape of sleep, until the dreams found me.

Nearly every night, I hold Katniss in my arms. Some nights we exchange words of love; other nights, no words are needed. But every day, without fail, I open my eyes to darkness, and I am alone. And she is still hundreds of miles away, in a place where death can claim her at any moment. Falling in love with another man. The pain I experience every day, just in waking, is unparalleled.

Some people may call them good dreams. To me, they are nothing but nightmares.


	2. The Feast

I can feel the splinters in my fingers.

I stand behind the small crowd of people who have gathered to watch the Feast – Thom, a few of my other crew mates, my mother, Prim – and tighten my grip on the wooden chair as we watch Katniss in the forest, waiting to run to risk her life. To get medicine.

_For him._

Of all the people here now, most leave me alone when it's only the two of them on screen. All of them but Prim, really. For some reason, we are comfortable watching together. We rarely feel the need to speak. She is the only one who I could stand to have with me when Katniss and Peeta are on, alone, together.

Which seems to be all the time.

Of course, I don't need a television to see them together. Every time I close my eyes I see them, wrapped in each other's arms, Peeta whispering words of love to her.

_Stop._

The urge to be sick is nearly overwhelming. I grip the chair harder.

I can feel the splinters in my fingers.

More people have arrived to watch the Feast. To watch the bloodbath that's sure to come.

Anger surges through me as, for the hundredth time, I tell myself I can't believe she's even there to begin with.

_She's risking her life. For _him.

I can taste bile in the back of my throat. Damn Peeta for putting her in this situation. If he makes it home alive I'm going to kill him. Remind him every hour of every day that he's alive because she's not. That she died because of him. Maybe he'll kill himself instead and spare me the trouble.

Shame floods my body, because Peeta wouldn't need me to remind him. Because Peeta would be feeling that regardless.

_Because Peeta's not the one I'm angry with._

He didn't want this. The swooping, sickening feeling I get when I think of them together rises in my chest, but this time it is met by a boiling anger and an unmistakable sense of betrayal.

She_ wanted this. She _wanted_ to risk her life for him. To keep him alive._

He tried to stop her. I had never felt more affection for and in agreement with Peeta Mellark than when he tried to keep her from going. It is, word for word, threat for threat, exactly what I would have done.

But not her.

She is not trying to keep herself alive at all costs. To get back to Prim.

_To get back to me_, I think.

She has allied herself with a considerably weaker player, placing herself in greater danger in general. And now, she is actively risking her life for him.

The kissing and star-crossed lovers bit is one thing. It's an act, they tell me. It's helping them stay alive, they tell me. And for most of the games, I could believe it. It was the hope I clung to in the darkness, when images of the two of them sharing kisses and caresses, whispering words of passion and love to each other would torment me to near insanity.

But that hope vanished the moment she decided what she would do with the sleeping medicine. Perhaps it wasn't obvious to all of Panem. Perhaps you had to know Katniss well to know what it meant.

Because Prim knew. And I knew.

Suddenly, Katniss is sprinting with all her might towards the table. She doesn't see the girl throw the knife, but we do. The crowd in front of me gasps with shock and cheers when Katniss manages not only to deflect the knife but to shoot the girl in the arm. I am unable to speak, unable to make sound, unable to look away.

Which means I see the knife slice into her forehead. I see the blood pour down her face. I see the girl slam into her and pin her to the ground.

Something icy grips my stomach, as it has before when she's been in danger.

_Get up, Katniss_, I silently urge her. A dull roar starts in my head.

But the seconds stretch on, and the roar builds, and _still_ Katniss is unable to shake the larger girl off.

_No ..._

__My vision starts to narrow to a point, until her frightened face fills my entire head.

Katniss is pinned. Katniss is bleeding. Katniss cannot escape.

And then, as though summoned from the darkest pits of hell, a fear such as I have never known – not even when the mine collapsed – consumes my entire being.

After hours and days of whispered poisoning, of flitting in and out of my veins every time she was hurt or in danger or in Peeta's arms, it is now present, wholly, and more fully than it has ever been before.

_This is it_, it tells me.

No. Please …

_This is the moment she is going to die._

No …

The words in my head are clear despite the roar, despite the alarming lack of air that makes breathing impossible. I grip the chair tighter, hoping the pain will wake me up and show me this isn't real.

This cannot be real. This _cannot _be real.

Katniss – my Katniss - cannot be about to die.

Blood is coating her face, and she is fighting fiercely. For a moment, it looks as though she'll succeed in throwing the girl off.

"She's too heavy," I hear Thom murmur.

Thom is right, and Katniss stays pinned to the ground.

_You're not there to help her._

A moan escapes my lips as I attempt, weakly, to silence the voice in my head.

_She's going to die because you're not there._

When Clove opens her coat and I see the array of knives, standing becomes impossible. I sink to the ground, bringing the chair with me. The groan that escapes my lips, the sound I make, is something animalistic, something not human. I can sense Thom's gaze on me. He is pale, his mouth set in a thin line.

_He knows what's about to happen_.

"No," I moan, tightening my grip.

I can feel the splinters in my fingers, but the pain is weaker now, as if it is farther away. I dig my fingers in harder, willing the pain to return, because somehow, if it does, it means that the other pain isn't happening.

Please …

I don't know whom I am begging, who I am asking for a miracle. Anyone. Anything.

Please …

This cannot be happening.

She is not on the ground, bleeding.

Katniss is not about to die.

Behind me, I am aware of murmuring voices. Vaguely, I wonder what they could possibly have to say in a moment like this, when the world is about to end.

I wish I could turn away. I wish I could stop seeing what I am seeing, but my brain refuses. My eyes refuse. In some, removed part of my soul, I almost feel that I owe it to her, to be there, any way I can.

But that's a joke. I'm not there for her. Even now, knowing her sister is here watching, I can't get it together enough to remove Prim from the room, to save her from having to watch her sister get murdered. I am pouring every ounce of strength into willing Katniss to escape. Somehow. Anyhow.

Please.

I can see, even now, the defiance in her eyes, the silver eyes we share.

_Eyes you'll never look into again._

All the feeling in my extremities is retreating now. I am barely aware of anything but what I am watching on the screen. Time, as if eager to extend my suffering, is moving in slow motion. I can see her limbs flail, see the blood – her blood – drip onto the ground.

Until I hear her scream.

"Peeta!" With a rush of sound, everything returns to full speed, and a blossom of hope loosens the iron grip on my stomach slightly. It then returns, twice as strong, when I realize, when I remember, really, that she's bluffing. That he's dying in a cave, unable to help her.

_No one can help her. _

I cannot help hoping that maybe, somehow, any way possible, he has made it there. That he will show up, miraculously, and get her away from here. There is no doubt he would, if he were able. Whatever else I could say about Peeta, if he knew Katniss was about to die, he would be crawling his way along the forest floor with his fingernails, if he had to.

_He's unconscious in a cave. She is going to be tortured to death in front of you_.

When I see the sun reflect off a small knife Clove has removed from her jacket, all sound disappears. I hear nothing but the roaring in my head and the frantic, frenzied pounding in my chest.

The claws that have sunk themselves into me tighten beyond pain and fear. They move into a nauseating certainty. The sickness I feel now is nothing like what I feel when I see them together. There is no jealousy now. Nothing exists but the fear that consumes me. It is engulfing me, smothering me, drowning me.

_Katniss is going to die._

I see Clove bring the point of a knife to Katniss' lips.

Something inside me ruptures.

I lunge towards the television. I am feral now, some unrecognizable animal desperate to get free. Thom, it seems, has been waiting for this, because I am vaguely aware of someone holding me back. Keeping me away from Katniss.

More hands are placed on me to restrain me, and manage to make me sink to the ground, but I fight harder. I have no control. I am vaguely aware that I am sobbing, screaming for her. I know only one thing: I have to get to Katniss. Nothing else matters. Nothing else is real. Nothing else exists.

People are shouting now. They don't understand. I have to get to her.

Finally, of all people, it is Prim's voice that manages to somehow get through to me.

"Gale, _look!"_ she is saying, pointing towards the television. "She's ok."

He points towards the television where, somehow, Katniss has not been killed. Clove has been knocked off of her. The hope that I feel well up inside me is almost painful. It is still nearly impossible to breathe, and I am still sick with fear, but I have stopped fighting.

Prim's small hands still rest on my shoulders.

And then we see Thresh, rock in hand turn his gaze towards Katniss.

Hope drains from my body, and with it, the last of my strength.

_You can't save her_.

I give a low, defeated moan as I bow, crushed, to the floor, willing, hoping, praying for unconsciousness to take me so I don't have to experience what I am feeling now. So I don't have to be awake for Katniss' last moments alive.

"Do it fast, okay, Thresh?"

Yes. At least now, it will be fast.

I close my eyes and bow my head, my forehead dropping onto Prim's arm.

"Katniss …" I whisper.

But then I feel her arm shaking me.

"Gale –"

"I'm sorry, Prim," I whimper miserably. "I'm sorry I couldn't save her for you."

"Gale - he let her go!"

But I don't look up. I can't. I can't hope just to have it taken away again. Finally, Prim's hand physically lifts my chin. "Look," she commands.

And she's right. Katniss is crashing through the woods. Bleeding and plainly terrified, waiting for Cato to appear and spear her at any moment, but alive.

"She's alive." I would not have even known I had spoken if it weren't for people nodding at me, wordlessly confirming my hope. The roar in my head diminishes slowly.

My breathing is becoming easier as well.

Vaguely, gradually, I become aware of something else.

I can feel the splinters in my fingers.


End file.
